


i'll carve your name out of the sky

by Ethereally



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23458000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally
Summary: Sylvain's learned a lot about different kinds of love in the last few years, but one thing rings true: love persists, and love isn't conditional. And he isn't sure whether the warmth in his chest whenever he sees Felix and Ingrid is love in the romantic sense, or if it's just familiarity warped through the throes of war, but despite everything, he's done a great job of keeping them alive. That should count for something.They've betrayed their king and spat on their country, but at least they've got each other.

Sylvain will make sure of that.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 97
Collections: Valentine's Day Lockers 2020





	i'll carve your name out of the sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsmasher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsmasher/gifts).



Miklan appears in his nightmares exactly the way he did on the day he died. A tusked beast, eyes crimson and nostrils flaring, bile and fluid dripping from his jaw as he lunges towards Sylvain. 

In his dreams, Sylvain is always alone, and his heart races so quickly it could hurtle through his chest. He grips the Lance of Ruin so tightly his knuckles turn white, and he stumbles back in panic-- he's stared Miklan down enough times in his sleep that he should know how this story ends. But Sylvain is hardly the hero of a fairytale, and he doesn't deserve to triumph. 

The Lance of Ruin twitches as it slices through Miklan, again. Rancid smoke billows from Miklan's scales, and Sylvain lifts a hand to shield his eyes, cringing: this scene never gets easier to witness, even seven months after the fact. Through the gaps between his fingers he sees Miklan fall to the floor, writhing in pain. Cracks burst through the concrete floor. 

The next, worst part never happened in real life. 

Miklan howls in his own voice. He turns his head to face Sylvain, speaking his name like a curse, spitting the syllables like a blight. _Sylvain_ , Miklan snarls, his mocking words reverberating throughout Castle Gautier. _Is this the best you can do, you pathetic spoiled brat?_

Sylvain's heard the rest of the speech before, but it stings harder each time he dreams it. He's just a toy, a _plaything_ of his father's that's worth nothing except his Crest, and Miklan will make sure Sylvain knows it even after he's dead and gone. He'll be back to haunt him, in his mind and in his sleep, again and again till the day Sylvain dies-- and, Miklan always says, the edges of his gaping demonic maw curling into a smile, _Let's talk about the scars I've left you._

 _You'll always be chasing something you can't have._

Sylvain hears a loud, familiar shriek, and a deeper voice screaming his name. He whirls around, only to find Felix's body crumpled in a heap, and Ingrid's corpse falling down from the sky next to him in a thud. They've been mauled to death in a flurry of arrows and scratch marks, Felix's uniform singed by a fire spell, burn marks singing his face. Fallen in battle while Sylvain wasn't looking-- all because he was too busy with his own problems.

_It's almost cute, how you overcompensate by trying to be a good big brother to your friends._

Sylvain always wakes up with a shudder, not a jolt. He's perfected the art of not disturbing whatever warm body he's pressed up against in the morning. 

Sylvain had mostly joined the Black Eagles for a laugh. He'd imagined it'd be something he'd joke about with Dimitri, Ingrid and Felix years down the line-- _Remember when I switched to the Professor's class back when we were in school, just because they had a great rack and eyes to die for?_ After all, Sylvain had crafted an impeccable image of himself as a philandering womanizer, and this was just him committing to the bit: he'd woven a mirage so real he could almost believe it, and he was far too drunk on his own facade to step back. 

What he hadn't realized was that Ingrid would then join, and Felix too, stumbling in one after the other at their dear Professor's pleas. “Someone's got to keep you out of trouble,” Ingrid had huffed, but there was a soft lilt to her voice that Sylvain didn't quite know how to place. Felix showed up in the Black Eagles classroom for the first time just days before the battle at the Holy Tomb, huffing that they were going to need the help: right before the predicament they're finding themselves in now. 

Sylvain thought he'd seen monsters when he stared down Miklan as a Demonic Beast. He'd thought he'd seen the worst of humankind when he'd flung himself at courter after courter, allowing himself to be used and abused for his crest. Yet their vapid praises and lustful gazes were absolutely nothing compared to the maniacal glint in Lady Rhea's eye when she'd ordered for Edelgard's death, or the shriek that had come after. The church has been hiding the truth behind Crests for centuries, guarding it behind fake smiles and an authoritarian grip. Edelgard will stand up against it, and rebuild a world with no need for a broken class system. Sylvain's ready to rally behind her. 

Even if it means that they're holed up in _here_.

The hideout is dark and musty, and smells like what Sylvain's half-certain is black mold. It's a temporary situation, Edelgard had sputtered, just something they'll have to deal with while the Empire regroups-- but even if it's cramped, and dingy, there's no place that Sylvain would rather be. He pushes up close to Felix in the bed they're sharing for the night. They haven't slept like this since they were children, and Felix squirms but doesn't protest. 

It should be warm and familiar, but sleep doesn't find Sylvain that night. He tosses and turns in bed, mind racing with what his father would say, what Dimitri would say, what _Miklan_ would say. Felix stares up at the ceiling next to him, but they don't talk. Earlier, Felix had mentioned earning his own freedom; cutting his own path. He'd said this was liberation from the strings that bound him, but when Sylvain's eyes meet his in the middle of the night, he senses a murky darkness that wasn't there before. Perhaps it's Sylvain's imagination, but he can't help but wonder if those ties might snap. 

Ingrid returns from Galatea territory a few days later, eyes sunken and hair matted with blood. Crimson liquid stains her school uniform, and the scrape marks on her pegasus tell Sylvain she barely escaped with her life. Unlike Felix, Ingrid will want comfort, and he's more than happy to provide her with that. He wraps his arms around her, and they stand there for what feels like hours in embrace.

For the first time in his life, he feels like more than just his father's stud horse, more than the root of all Miklan's despair. They'll pull through to face a better world when they come out the other side. They have to. After all, Sylvain's the reason that Felix and Ingrid have gotten into this mess: he'll see them through the end of it, no matter what it takes. 

They're traitors now. The Black Eagle Strike Force piles back into campus after the Battle of Garreg Mach, and the Empire's flag flies proud and mighty from their new base. 

Some days, it feels like the world's gone back to normal, with meals in the cafeteria and drills in the training grounds. He's still got his late-night chats with Dorothea and stable duty with Ferdinand in the mornings. But Sylvain, Ingrid and Felix are traitors, and it isn't so easy to just forget that. Not when the word hangs around him like an ever-tightening noose. 

Sylvain can only imagine how much of a stir they must have caused-- three of Faerghus' brightest and most promising young nobles, turning their backs on king and country and storming into war. A small, vindictive part of Sylvain relishes the label for all it's worth, a last, flippant _fuck you_ to Faerghus and the church, but a larger part of him feels a bone-deep hurt at the gravity of what he's done. Much as they failed both him and Miklan, he can't just stop caring for his parents at the drop of a hat. His father must be livid. Sylvain's glad he's too much of a coward to face him. 

The label hangs even heavier around Ingrid's neck. Sylvain can see it in how the spring has been taken from her step, the way her eyes are stained red when they congregate in the morning. She shovels breakfast into her mouth with the same gumption but less gusto, and brushes him off when Sylvain asks if she's okay. It's enough to make him miss her lectures. She'd dealt with grief when Glenn had passed, but this holds a completely different magnitude-- so much of Ingrid's self-image has been built around herself as a righteous figure, a perfect knight, and Sylvain can only imagine how crushing this must be. The only comfort he can give her is in the form of warm smiles, offers to talk, and his sliding her a spare chicken drumstick at dinner: at least the latter will be appreciated.

If being a traitor hurts Felix, he hasn't said anything about it, but his actions have always spoken far louder than his words. Much as he'd hated learning in a classroom, Felix had always been the first one to the training grounds and the last one to stop practicing before dinner, but he's morphed into a creature that Sylvain can barely recognize. When they spar, Felix faces Sylvain with a razor-sharp precision that wasn't there before. There's an ever-growing glint in his eyes that's hungry, yearning. Their weapons clash against each other for a split second, and Felix narrows his eyes, pushing just a little harder. Before he knows it, Sylvain is stumbling back, his training lance flying out of his hands, spinning across the ground-- and he finds himself at the edge of Felix's blade. He stares up at Felix, the tip of the sword pressing against Sylvain's throat. 

This isn't normal, but nothing ever will be again. 

It's a mess, this is a mess, this is _his_ mess. For someone who'd once been so bad at taking responsibility for his womanizing behavior, Sylvain sure is great at having guilt and panic set in when he thinks about his friends. He stares up at the ceiling of his old dorm room, trying and failing to sleep at night. “Making up for lost time,” Sylvain whispers to himself, staring out the all-too familiar windows into the cloudy moonlight. He can't help but wonder if Felix feels the same way on the other side of his wall, or if Ingrid's bawling her eyes out down the hallway. 

Sylvain sits up straight in his bed. Well, there's only one way to find out. 

Quietly, he shuts his door behind him, pressing his ear against the entrance to Felix's room. Silence. Sylvain heaves a sigh of relief, before tiptoeing down the hall, all the way down to the room closest to the stairs. He backs up against Ingrid's wall, listening intently for any signs of movement; there is a rustling sound behind the door, and a whine that sounds more petulant than mournful. Sylvain raises an eyebrow when a second voice pipes up-- it's Felix's, snapping at Ingrid to stop kicking around and to go to sleep. They couldn't be-- they aren't-- unless...? 

He doesn't have much longer to consider this before he hears the sound of footsteps, and the door clicking open behind him. Sylvain stumbles backwards into Ingrid's room, only to be greeted by a fully-clothed Ingrid in her bed, and Felix standing by the door, dressed in his school-assigned loungewear. He's holding a pair of shears, and a pile of blonde and dark hair sits in a messy pile on Ingrid's carpet: Sylvain's eyes meet Felix's, and then Ingrid's, and realization dawns upon him. His jaw drops open.

“You got... You sure did just get haircuts.” He snorts, turning up to stare at Felix's hastily-shorn tresses. It's jagged in some places and one of them has made some sort of attempt at layering it, and Sylvain isn't quite sure whose hair they've made a bigger mess of. Sylvain bites the inside of his mouth, doing his best not to laugh. Ingrid raises a hand to the back of her head.

“It... It seemed like a good idea a few hours ago,” Ingrid stutters, scratching the base of her new, shorter hair. Her new look would suit her if it wasn't so messy; Sylvain imagines that it might grow out to be kind of nice. He grins up at Felix, shaking his head. 

“Okay, so. Whose work is this, and what gave you guys the idea?”

Felix sets the shears down on Ingrid's desk, shutting the door behind Sylvain. 

“Shut up,” he snarls, but his annoyance quickly subsides, giving way to a sheepish glance. “I used to... I would cut my own hair as a child when my mother wouldn't let me. I mentioned it to Ingrid, and she thought it might be a good idea--”

“Why are you acting like this is just _my_ fault?” Ingrid snaps back at Felix, folding her arms. 

Sylvain can't hold back any longer. He throws his head back, letting out a laugh-- a loud guffaw far stronger and freer than he's dared to be in the last year. He's not sure why Ingrid would have trusted Felix's childlike handiwork, but these are the decisions that people make in times of crisis. Sylvain grabs hold of Ingrid's desk to support himself, shaking his head, and he's downright cackling now, ignoring Felix and Ingrid's sharp glares. In the midst of the chaos since the battle of the Holy Tomb, this feels like a reprieve, a shining ray of hope; there's a part of them all that's still stupid kids. Sylvain's going to have to chase that like a guiding light if they're going to make it through. 

Finally, Sylvain is able to speak, and he marches over towards Felix and snatches the scissors from him. He gestures towards Ingrid's desk chair. 

“I'll fix this. Who's going first?”

Felix scowls. “Why should I trust you?”

Sylvain beams back in response. “Let's face it, guys. I spend more time on my appearance than the two of you put together, then doubled.” 

Felix groans, dragging himself towards the desk chair and plopping himself in it before Sylvain gets to work. A few well-placed snips and cuts later, and Sylvain is done with Felix; Ingrid crawls out of bed next, and Sylvain makes quick work of her as well, giving her a short buzz cut that shows off her cheekbones. He barely has time to admire his handiwork before Felix slumps over in Ingrid's bed, and she curls up next to him, resting her head on Felix's shoulder. Sylvain sets the shears down, and his eyes meet Ingrid's. Softly, he mouths, _should I leave_?

Ingrid sighs, patting the small empty space next to her. “You're so stupid,” she mutters, before her eyes slam shut and she falls asleep. Sylvain takes the cue to squeeze himself in next to her. From that day onwards, they never sleep apart again. 

The war rages on, though, and the Empire presses forward. It's a slow, laborious process, but at least Felix and Ingrid are still alive through it, which is really all that counts. The Black Eagle Strike Force has just about backed the Alliance into a corner when their long-gone Professor surfaces from the dead. Sylvain's not sure he's seen Edelgard so happy in years-- not that she'd admit it, but there's a sincerity to her laughter and a warmth to her words that he'd never seen before. Dorothea and Edelgard are in love and Sylvain knows it, but Edelgard and the Professor feel like twin souls in step with one another. It's apparent with how they bounce ideas off one other in the war room, how they complete each other's sentences. How their meals are shared in silent, tacit understanding. 

Sylvain's learned a lot about different kinds of love in the last few years, but one thing rings true: love persists, and love isn't conditional. And he isn't sure whether the warmth in his chest whenever he sees Felix and Ingrid is love in the romantic sense, or if it's just familiarity warped through the throes of war, but despite everything, he's done a great job of keeping them alive. That should count for something. 

He's turned on so many of his friends and loved ones at this point that his previous connections mean little to him any more: the weight of being labeled a traitor is nothing compared to the blood shed as a consequence of that. Much as he enjoys laughing and chatting with a majority of the Black Eagles, none of them feel like home the way Felix and Ingrid do, even if they aren't quite the Felix and Ingrid that he knew long ago. 

Sylvain never thought he'd see the day that the idealism was burned from Ingrid's eyes, but there's a machine-like precision to the way she trains now, a hollowness in her voice as she commands her troops. And he can hear the hunger, the bloodlust in Felix's breath as he slices down hordes of enemies, like all the pent-up anger that he's held close to his chest for so long has been unleashed at the tip of his blade. They've fallen so far from whatever futures they might have envisioned for themselves. At least Sylvain never made the mistake of hoping. 

He's there when Ingrid strikes Dimitri down, shrieking as her pegasus swoops down to pierce him through the lungs. He watches as his childhood friend collapses to his knees, eyes brimming with hurt, but also stained with the tacit understanding that they did what they had to do. In the distance, Dedue screams; he yells Dimitri's name, repeating “my liege, my liege, my love” as he drops his axe, storming towards where Dimitri once stood. When Dimitri's lifeless body falls to the ground, Sylvain knows there's not much time left to mourn. Dedue will come for their throats, and frankly, he can't say that they don't deserve it. He places a hand on Ingrid's shoulder.

“Let's go,” he says. Through the corner of his eye, he notices Felix slice down a Demonic Beast, blood gushing from its neck as it lands on the floor with a _thud_. The Empire's flag has been thrown up in victory, but surely Edelgard won't blame Sylvain for not feeling like he's got much reason to celebrate. He laughs sadly, staring out into the crimson sky.

“All for our future,” Sylvain mutters underneath his breath. He's sure he'll believe it if he keeps saying it enough. 

Sylvain never thought he'd be grateful to wake up to the same faces every morning. Felix is pressed against him on one side, stirring in his sleep, muttering something about bloodlust as he tosses and turns; Ingrid is curled into a ball on the other, chest rising and falling with every breath, occasionally whispering _sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry_. It's the closest thing to rest she'll afford herself, Sylvain thinks as he presses a kiss to her forehead. This is the only softness he can offer them. 

When Felix drags himself out of bed a few minutes later, he won't know that Sylvain spent their last peaceful moments stroking his hair. Ingrid won't know how Sylvain lulled her back to sleep, wrapping himself around her in the middle of the night, and that suits him just fine. It's better for them that way. Instead, Sylvain flashes his cockiest grin, lamenting the lack of a previous night's conquest; Felix scowls, Ingrid rolls her eyes, and the three of them flood out of the room squawking and squabbling. Some things don't have to change, even if Sylvain's feelings have shifted into a monstrosity that he can't hope to contain, because for a split second, Sylvain can pretend that things are normal. 

The final battle hangs in the distance. Soon, they'll stare down an immortal dragon, topple a corrupt church, and break down the steel that chained them. Perhaps after he sees this new, better world Edelgard wants to build, Sylvain will feel like what he's done was worth it-- but until then, all he can do is take this day by day. He slides into his armor, grabbing the Lance of Ruin and mounting his horse. 

Maybe then he'll have the courage to take Felix and Ingrid's hands, and they'll step into a brighter future together.

**Author's Note:**

> re-uploaded this because it got eaten by ao3's algorithm/i wanted to make some edits!! so if you've seen this before, that's why. 
> 
> special thanks to [j](http://www.twitter.com/jireemblem) for letting me scream at them while i threw ideas around, i super appreciate it!! title taken from the graveyard near the house by the airborne toxic event.
> 
> find me at @gautired on twitter if you'd like to chat about sylvixgrid, and feel free to [retweet](https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1246124245693816832) this if you liked it!


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